


Christmas Party Redux

by sequins_stripes



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alcohol, Christmas Party, Drunk Sherlock, Drunken Kissing, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Pining Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-08
Updated: 2014-09-08
Packaged: 2018-02-16 14:28:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2273259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sequins_stripes/pseuds/sequins_stripes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John spikes Sherlock's punch at the 221B Christmas party.  Hilarity ensues.  Until Molly arrives late once again and Sherlock proves bad at feelings whether drunk or hungover.  A bit of crack, a bit of fluff, a bit of angst, and a bit of Sherlolly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Christmas Party Redux

**Author's Note:**

> I've never actually written a proper full-on Sherlolly fic but I was working up to it with this one. I may come in and tinker with the ending. Or add another chapter? Post-Series Three, I own nothing, please enjoy, merry Christmas in September!

“Yeah, great, let’s do it.”

“Wait, really?” Greg hadn’t been 100% serious and he certainly hadn’t anticipated John agreeing so readily. But the scotch was already flowing for both men at the 221B Christmas drinks thing and Greg didn’t know that John was miffed about having been stuck earlier in the day with yet another whole cab fare, despite the double occupancy. John grabbed a bottle from the wet bar and poured generously into the glass cup of vibrant pink liquid and floating fruit. “Come and have some punch, Sherlock. It’s Christmas and you’re offending Mrs. Hudson…”

Sherlock held his liquor longer than John had expected given the disaster of the stag night. But inevitably the one tree-shaped biscuit he had nibbled was no match for the unknown extra shots of vodka running through his system. The buzz of the room quieted at the distinctive sound of a string being plucked haphazardly. Sherlock had stripped to his shirtsleeves and was uncharacteristically sitting cross-legged in his chair. He crouched over his violin, strumming it like a ukulele. Upon his dark curls sat Mrs. Hudson’s novelty holiday antlers.

For a moment, nobody dared comment. Then Mrs. Hudson clapped her hands with unadulterated glee. Mary smacked John on the arm, immediately piecing together what had happened. He made a half-hearted attempt at pleading ignorance before turning to reach for a high-five from Greg who was busy setting his smartphone to video capture mode. As no one tried to physically move the consulting detective or to challenge his supremacy in the knowledge of ash, Sherlock remained placid. He also resumed drinking his punch, sipping daintily with his pinky finger outstretched.

Soon the collective attention drifted back to party chatter and then to the arrival of Molly, out of breath from dashing up the stairs. She wore a very silly Christmas jumper matched with a bit of glamourous red lipstick . A chorus of “Hellos” and “Merry Christmases” welcomed her into the flat. Sherlock couldn’t muster his usual annoyance at the tedium of party greetings and instead enthusiastically, though ungracefully, flapped an arm in salutation from his perch on his leather chair. In the effort, the antlers unceremoniously slid off his head and hit the ground. Sherlock didn’t react at first but after a beat glared down at them accusatorially and then promptly forgot them.

Molly cheerily blamed her tardiness on the late shift at St. Bart’s as she made her way over to greet the host in person. Unsure of how to interact with him in his drunken stupor, she ultimately patted him on the head and gave him a peck on the cheek. The kiss roused Sherlock again, as he registered her smell and the way her red lipstick had faintly clung to his skin. But she was already gone, turned to Mary sharing pictures on her phone of the baby in her green striped onesie. He struggled to make a deduction as to the cause of the sudden pang in his chest.

LIPSTICK BODY PARTS SOFT MINE??!!? PATHY PATHO DEADY DOCTOR DIZZY

Sherlock took this to mean he needed fish and chips immediately. His suit jacket long lost, he fumbled only with the coat, nearly knocking over a candle with an overzealous swish. The blue scarf was wound twice tightly and tied with an unnecessary bow. He slipped out the door without much notice of his guests, but didn’t make it to the third step down before lightheadedness set in. He promptly abandoned the chips quest, settling into a lie-down on the staircase.

In the ensuing ruckus of John’s library of funny Youtube videos (a holiday-themed playlist made especially for the occasion) and Mrs. Hudson’s demonstration of a couple of her signature dance moves (with allowances for her hip), only Molly grew concerned at Sherlock’s continuing absence. She moved towards the door where her phone was stashed in her coat pocket and saw the recognizable head of dark hair resting on the landing. “Sherlock?” she half giggled as she squeezed herself in beside him on the step. He jerked up and flailed about to find his bearings. After a couple of seconds of blinking dumbly at her, he responded unsteadily, “Molly….Hooper…Moooollyyy.” “Oh dear we’ve got to work out those blood/alcohol calculations for you for real, haven’t we? Perhaps a sample is in order. You could use the lab at Bart’s to run the test. I’d find you a slot of tim…” She stopped at the sight of his face scrunched up in pain, his fingers running over his mouth – he looked as though he was about to cry. “Sherlock, what is it?” There was a hint of worry creeping into her voice, although she was struggling to shake her amusement.

“You’re not wearing it for me” he whined. “What?” She was back to full-on laughter. “It..IT” he spat out, exasperated. “The lipstick…you’re not for me.” Now the laughter was marked with a dash of chastisement. “Sherlock! You were irritated for years with my…that…you know…Your ego can’t really miss the attention.”

Sherlock leaned in and kissed her. It wasn’t a passionate, artful kiss. It was although he had just fallen forward (which wasn’t far off from the physical reality) and had landed face first on hers. His mouth barely met her upper lip and instead were mostly smashed up against her nose. His eyes were wide open, frozen in horror. He didn’t move a muscle, even as Molly wiggled her way out from between his torso and the railing.

She rushed back into the flat, grabbed John by the arm and whispered, “I think Sherlock needs some help out on the stairs.” John snickered drunkenly. “How are you feeling, mate?” John called from the doorway. Sherlock was now leaning forward, his head between his knees. “John, I believe I am in need of a…” The next sound and smell were unmistakable. “Sick bag?” John groaned. “Yeah…that…”

A text lit up John’s phone the next morning.

You are a very bad man. – S

AND YOU NEED TO START CARRYING CAB FARE. MERRY CHRISTMAS.

YOU ARE STILL COMING TO OURS FOR ACTUAL CHRISTMAS DINNER NEXT WEEK? MARY’S ASKING

Parents find the baby an acceptable excuse to miss theirs. So yes.

 

Sherlock hid in his bedroom for most of the morning. The hangover subsided quickly – it was all just transport anyway – but he wished to avoid the wrath of Mrs. Hudson for the extra cleaning needed. It didn’t once occur to him to take care of the mess up himself. When he was confident that she had left to treat herself to an afternoon film with Mrs. Turner, he bathed, dressed and dashed down the stairs to hail a cab. He rehearsed a number of speeches during the ride, discarding each as unsatisfactory. When the cab the reached St. Bart’s, as he pulled out his wallet, he announced adamantly, “I do carry cab fare, John.” “Good thing, mate, but me name’s Arthur.”

“Oh! I did not expect to see you up and about today.” Molly was a bit slower than usual in the lab due to the late night. Sherlock stood silently by her desk, fidgeting to find some words. She continued to chatter on brightly. “You’ve eaten and had water today, yes? You need to replace the electrolytes you lost…why am I telling you that? You know that, sorry.”

“I’m sorry, Molly” he finally blurted out. “Forgive me” he added more gravely. Once again, laughter. “Oh Sherlock. We all know what happened. Mary gave the boys quite the lecture after you were put to bed. The little one is in for a rough road if she’s naughty.” Molly moved in closer and put a hand lightly on his arm. “And John assumed you’d already been sick. No one saw the…um…” She faltered, blushing. Then she shook her head and smiled up at him. “You know.”

He swallowed hard, hoping that he was projecting relief from his facial expression. She had turned back to her row of test tubes to mark off the next one in sequence. Then, the smallest seed of an idea, so faint it was almost imperceptible, prompted Molly to look up at him again, expectantly. Sherlock chaffed under the air that felt so heavy with all the things he considered, feared, longed to say. “Yes…so…I’ll be needing a foot from the morgue later. Have a preference for which corpse I mangle?”


End file.
